


insubordination

by noahlikeswaffles (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Collars, Dom John Watson, Gentleness, It's For a Case, Kneeling, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Protective John Watson, Scared Sherlock, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27480772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/noahlikeswaffles
Summary: Sherlock has a serial killer to a BDSM club, and decides to go undercover, by himself. John does NOT approve.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock?" John knocked on the shut bathroom door with his knuckle, "Sherlock I've gotta take a piss,"

"One- moment-" The detective called and John scrunched his eyebrows at the scuffling and clattering of objects inside. Drugs? No, Sherlock wouldn't be so careless to do them where John could find them. At least John hoped he wasn't.

"Y'okay?"

"Fine!" John heard a zipper, some scuffling and the frosted glass door to Sherlock's room close. "All yours,"

Sherlock gasped out a breath as he made it to his room and ran a finger over his slicked back hair. God, that was close. He looked in his own tall mirror. He looked- he looked sexy, he supposed. Just the type his killer was looking for- thin, dark-haired and submissive. Sherlock didn't _know_ if he was submissive, but the leather trousers that looked painted on, fishnet shirt, wrist cuffs and black leather collar, he definitely looked the part. He leaned in close and inspected the makeup he'd applied in a hurry. Glitter, lots of glitter, his research had concluded. He blinked at himself, his eyelashes sticky with mascara. He looked kind of pretty- but the silvery highlighter wasn't doing his alien, Sid-the-sloth cheekbones any favours. 

But all that matter was that Mystery Dom took the bait, took him back to his apartment and Sherlock could find the incriminating evidence. He didn't have to think twice before he had decided to not tell John. John would probably not approve of encouraging an attempted murder. But Sherlock was _bored._ And besides, he knew what he was doing, it'd be over and done before John even knew. The detective gave his own oddly plump arse a backwards glance before swooping on his coat and gloves, quickly escaping and running down the stairs. 

He hailed a cab and gave him the address, turning once more to look up at the window of 221b with a sigh. Cases were so much less fun without his blogger. 

* * *

John's mouth had twisted into a confused scowl the moment Sherlock had gone. Where was he going at 11 at night? John checked his watch once more and shook his head. Yep. Not likely he was off getting milk. 

The doctor rubbed a hand through his *wince* greying hair and flopped into his arm chair, staring at the empty black leather across from him. He tapped on the arm of his chair, stretching his toes back and forth, twitching this way and that. 

Christ, he's like some mother hen now. Every time Sherlock's out of his sight he's afraid. Afraid to lose his most important person. His person. john watched the window now. His stomach was twisting with nerves. His gut was never wrong, well, not usually. His mind flashed to Afghanistan, to Barts, his fists clenching white and his breathing getting tight. Fragments that had become intertwined- if he'd only been less careless, if he'd realized the little girl was asking him for help, that she was loaded with explosives, if he'd not been so bloody stupid. He shouldn't have gone to Mrs. Hudson, he should've known. John couldn't keep Sherlock safe if he didn't _know._

He stood in a burst of energy and grabbed his coat, fishing out his phone and sending a text. 

_Pls send Sherlock's location_

The response was quick, and made John's heart sink to the floor. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was beginning to think maybe this was a bad idea. 

He swallowed thickly, his eyes flickering in every direction, his heart hammering in his chest. Sex. There was sex _everywhere._ It's smell was lingering on every surface, in the air, with a warm salty musk that assaulted Sherlock's senses. Leather and metal and skin that blurred, his deductions slow and unfocused. Through the dense, vibrating crowd, he saw a woman strapped to an X, or rather he heard her yowling as a large man whipped her, ten stranded flogger...dentist...two dogs...something? He shook his head and looked back down to his sugary, blue drink, eyes watching it with intensity as he cheeks flared. He didn't like this. 

Something here was messing with him, his thoughts on nothing but what that girl must be feeling, all these eyes on her, all this attention, knowing she has no control over what happens next besides pre-made agreements. They could do _anything_ to her. She had put her safety entirely in their hands, trusting no real harm would come to her. He shuddered and crossed his legs, shameful of the erection that had come unwanted, his stomach tight. 

"Like what you see, pup?" Sherlock gasped as someone spoke near him, and whipped his head around to look up with large eyes. He blinked and swallowed, nodding and evaluating the Dom in front of him. 6 foot 4, 110kg, dark hair, left handed, wearing a black leather vest and trousers. 

"Yes sir,"

"Who put this on you, boy?" The Dom's thick muscular fingers gripped around the leather of his collar and Sherlock's cheeks flared, the strap digging into his windpipe as he sputtered. The man grinned and seemed to enjoy the little squeak that escaped Sherlock's nose. 

"m-my boyfriend," He lied quickly, his mind flickering to a certain jumper-clad doctor who wasn't likely to wait up for him. John. He should've told John. 

"Bad dog," The man pulled tighter on his collar, mouth so close to his ear Sherlock could feel the steam of his breath on his skin, barely noticing as his arms boxed him in, his dense and garishly protruding muscles on display. "You're lying," 

"not- lying," Sherlock whispered, stepping backwards and bumping into his arms, looking around the room, finding nobody looking their direction. Making a scene would blow his cover, this was possibly a normal interaction, perhaps this was polite and he was going to mess it up and a killer would get away and John would be disappointed. The thought sent a ripple of anxiety up his spine. 

"A real collared sub wouldn't be up on a stool, would he?" The man continued, dragging his teeth across the shell of Sherlock's ear. Sherlock rolled his shoulder only for him to bite down on the fleshy bit of ear lobe. Hard. Hard enough Sherlock was sure he's drawn blood. Sherlock saw his plan crumbling before his eyes, looking back up to the Dom with pleading eyes. 

"Sir, please, I'm collared, this isn't-"

The Dom harshly slapped his exposed white thigh and Sherlock immediately drew his knees closed, eyes aghast. 

"You filthy lying slut," The man scolded, hand wandering up to palm at Sherlock's erection, which was for John! Not for him! Sherlock hated himself and his stupid transport. Nobody would think he didn't want this with an erection, his body had betrayed him and consented on his behalf. "Why don't you introduce me to your Master then, boy," The dom grinned sadistically and Sherlock's stomach dropped at his called bluff. He looked left and right, anywhere but the burning black eyes that bore into him. 

"I thought so, you little whore, you _lied_ to me," The dom tsked, hand reaching up to grasp his collar again, finger tracing the silver dog tags Sherlock had clipped on, hoping to give it a personal touch. And maybe...maybe for other reasons. 

He squeaked when the buckle was undone on the back of his neck, the collar dropping to the floor with a clatter easily covered with the club music and loud noises of the public scenes. the Dom immediately replaced the leather with his lips and teeth, scraping and biting and slurping at Sherlock's bare skin. 

Sherlock's stomach went ice cold as his mind flashed to crime scene photos- the blackening bruises they wore around their necks like collars. He marks his victims before he kills. Classic Serial Killer. It's how Scotland Yard had known to phone him. 

John had already written _black ring murders?_ _~~collaring card?~~_ or some likewise insufferable rubbish title on his computer notepad. 

John. 

JOHN. 

Sherlock cried out as the man jabbed a needle in his thigh, the sting numbed by the immediate affect. Sherlock opened his mouth to scream, eyes darting back and forth before rolling back, the pounding of the club lights flashing behind his eyelids. Every heartbeat was slower than the last as he fell forwards, quite literally into his killer's arms. 


End file.
